


Who You Are (and the Lies You Tell)

by WriteTimeWrongPlace



Series: Deceit The Demon [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon Deceit Sanders, Human Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-07-19 20:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteTimeWrongPlace/pseuds/WriteTimeWrongPlace
Summary: He's been running all his life. He's running when he gets sent down to hell, leaving his soul twisted and tormented until he forgets his old human life. So he gives himself a new name - Deceit - and vows that he'll never let anyone come close enough to hurt him again. From now on, all he cares about is survival.For as long as Virgil can tell, he's been running too. Running away from home when he was a teenager was only the beginning. Now he's abandoned his only friend in a town he can never go back to. He's too afraid to even approach someone new for fear that he'll have to leave again and lose more people he loves.Somehow, these two social outcasts will find each other and learn how to love themselves as well as each other.





	1. That... CANNOT be where the bar is!

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The prequel to my other Demon!Deceit story that no one asked for. Enjoy, lovelies!
> 
> (A quick note: Deceit is using she/her pronouns in the first few chapters because he’s possessing a lady, and Virgil is the POV character who has no clue. Though this is tagged anxceit, Virgil is still very gay and remains that way the whole time. We don't make openly gay men straight for fun here, people! Is that all cleared up? Don't worry, just read it.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To overcome his social anxiety, Virgil actually takes his therapist's advice and goes out for a change.
> 
> The bartender is just a little too weird for him, though.

“What would you like to address, Virgil? We have the whole hour.”

Virgil eyes Dr. Berry from the armchair he’s perched on the edge of and taps his fingers together in a nervous tick.  This is how Dr. Berry starts all their sessions, usually after a five-minute chat about the weather or something equally impersonal. (Last time, Dr. Berry went on a tangent about his new vocab cards that are thick enough to highlight without the pen going through to the other side. Mr. Berry, Logan has said, thought the whole thing was hilarious.  The idea that Dr. Berry has a husband — the concept of him having a life outside these walls — is foreign and uncomfortable. Like seeing a teacher in the supermarket.)

He scrambles for something else to look at while he tries to think of an answer.  A little potted cactus on the desk, lined with sticky notes detailing the specifics of taking care of it including how much sunlight it needs and how often to water it. Further up are the various diplomas displayed across the wall — _‘Logan Berry - Doctorate in Psychology, Yale’ ‘Logan Berry - Masters in Biochemistry, Stanford’_. Virgil’s eyes skim over the other few.

His eyes land on the floor - an old shaggy carpet with indents where Logan’s old desk used to be. It scares him that he’s been going to these sessions long enough to know that.

_Logan_. After their third session, Dr. Berry has insisted on a transition into using first names.  Apparently, it’s supposed to establish a “rapport” with patients, which is a fancy way of saying that he wants to trick Virgil into trusting him.

When Virgil finally looks up at Logan, he finds him waiting with his arms folded into his lap, unmoving. He’s calm. Collected. Virgil envies it.

“I’d have thought you’d have a list of all my issues by now.” He means it as a joke, but the words come out dry.

Virgil almost wants to laugh when Logan picks up his clipboard from where he’d leaned it against his chair. “Would you like me to offer some points? You did insist that I be upfront about my impressions of you.”

“Have at it.”

Logan adjusts his glasses. “Intensive bouts of anxiety, abandonment issues, lapses into paranoid thinking, developing agoraphobia, intrusive thoughts-"

“Ah- We don’t, er.” Virgil coughs, his windpipe feeling tighter. “We don’t have to go into those today.”

“Alright.” Logan places the clipboard on his lap. “How about you catch me up to speed with this past week? Did you go out anywhere?”

Virgil pretends to think about it, even though he knows the answer. “...Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Logan nods like he expected nothing less of him. Is that how he nods? Therapists are so hard to read. “There’s a slam poetry event happening at the Shady Treehouse tomorrow.  Maybe  take a friend, see if you like the atmosphere.”

Virgil scrunches up his nose. “Aren’t those places crowded?”

“If it’s popular, yes, I imagine it will be a little crowded. Is that something you would find... Unsettling?” Logan says.

“Unsettling isn’t the word I’d use.”  Out of morbid curiosity, Virgil tries to catch a glimpse of the other words scribbled on Logan’s clipboard. _Displays a lack of motivation. Suggest combating this before it heightens to more serious avolition._ Huh. Logan is right on the mark.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t speak for you.” Logan pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What word would you use?”

Virgil actually thinks about it this time. A large, bustling bar with eyes everywhere,  all of them on him no matter how he stands-

Terrifying. He’d use the word terrifying.

“Uh...” Virgil scratches the back of his head and sits up. “Loud?”

“Loud.” Logan stares at him. “What else?”

“Suffocating? I don’t know!” Virgil huffs in frustration.  “It’s  just  \- it’s a bunch of people who all know you don’t belong there,  just  \- looking at you and judging you- why would anyone want that?”

Logan hums in thought. “You seem to be harkening back to the core belief we discussed a few weeks ago. That other people - whether you know them or not - are scrutinising your behaviours or lack thereof.”

“Yeah, well-“ Virgil cuts himself off and glances up at Logan. “Harkening?”

Logan nods. “Indeed. Referring to past discussions and/or events.”

“You must’ve been popular at school.” Virgil cracks a weak smile.

Logan doesn’t register what Virgil says, or if he does, he doesn’t comment on it. “Did you end up calling your father?  Perhaps  he’d like to go with you.”

“Nah, he’s- I mean, I messaged him,” Virgil lies, “but it’s not his scene. I don’t know, he’s not the intellectual type. He’s smart, he’s just more into puppies than, er. Reading poetry.” He finishes lamely.

“Well, even if you attend by yourself.” Logan actually smiles this time. “Social isolation can actually increase your anxiety in social situations. Put simply, when you excessively limit the amount of social interaction you have, you negatively reinforce the behaviour of isolation, and further prevent recovery. Are you familiar with the two-process model?”

“Er... Is that like... You get more anxious the more you isolate yourself?” Virgil is tenser with every word he says.

“You’re not far off.” Logan gives him a reassuring smile. “When you avoid the thing that terrifies you, you feel relief. So you reinforce the avoidance behaviour, because every time you do it, you take the fear away.”

Virgil can’t meet Logan’s eyes. He feels his chest clenching. “Does that mean I have to go to this dumb slam poetry thing?”

“It means that you have a choice between continuing your current path of behaviour or making changes. This is one possible change that you could choose to make.” Logan leans towards him. “Virgil?”

Virgil looks at him.

“You don’t have to do anything. You are in complete control of your life. No one else gets a say in the things you do. Not even me.”

“Right. Uh... Okay?" What the hell is anyone supposed to say to that? "Are you serious right now?”

Logan gestures to the tie hanging from his neck. It's different than the one he usually wears. “I’m always serious. I wear a necktie.”

“Right.” Virgil snorts. “Office dress code?”

“Personal preference. It was an anniversary gift, actually."

“Ah.”

* * *

The Shady Treehouse is a small hipster bar on the outskirts of town.  You can’t find it on google maps because it was only built six months ago, but despite that, it’s always fully booked for events. For now, it’s one of those places where twenty-something-year-olds go to find themselves, hopped up on booze and cheap pills and that stupid little voice that tells you anything is possible.

Thirty-one-years-old, sober, and voiceless, Virgil pushes open the door and walks straight up to the bar.

He has a plan for situations like this.

_Rule 1: Don’t make eye contact with anyone but the bartender._

He’d mastered this one years ago. Virgil reaches into his bag as he sits on the barstool, pulling out a book with a worn cover.  Total person guard, obscure enough that no one was about to come up to him and ask about it, and long enough that he wouldn’t be able to finish it in a night. Plus, at a poetry slam it might even earn him some culture points. Score.

_Rule 2: Don’t get drunk._

Virgil’s okay at this one these days. He tries not to use alcohol as a vice, but he does order a beer so the bartender won’t ask him to leave. He doesn’t intend on drinking it.

He looks at the bartender until she meets his eyes, and then makes a small drinking motion with his hand.

The bartender looks at him blankly, then slowly brings her hand up to her face to repeat the motion.

Virgil frowns. “Can I...?”

The bartender takes a few steps towards him until she’s leaning over the bar, some old drink juice leaving patches on her turtleneck. Up close, Virgil notices that the left side of her face is painted with some intricate pattern, but it’s too dimly lit to make it out. She keeps staring, bringing up both her hands to Virgil’s. Her thumbs brush the backs of his hands, long painted nails scraping the skin a little. Like she’s studying him.

Virgil clears his throat and grips the book tighter. Maybe this is how she greets all the new patrons. Maybe it's a test? It could just be another hipster thing he doesn’t understand. “Can I get a beer?”

The bartender doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move even. Or, maybe she does, because now a drink is being pushed towards him.

Who’s giving him the drink if she’s still got hold of him?

The bartender moves so fluidly that Virgil barely notices as she slithers back to serving the other customers. Ah well. He has a beer.

_Rule 3 (and this is a new addition): under no circumstances get up on a stage to read out poetry to strangers._

That should be easy. He doesn’t even write poetry. This whole social thing might be better than he thought.

* * *

Two hours later, Virgil looks up and realises that he hasn't made an effort to speak to anyone.

Sighing, he closes his book and places it on the bar. There was no point coming out tonight; he should pay his tab and go home. “Excuse me, miss?”

She walks over to him and smiles. It looks practiced. “Yes?”

“How much for the beer I didn’t drink?”

Creepy Bartender Lady glances at the drink then back up to Virgil’s face. “Why come to a bar if you’re not going to drink?”

Virgil grits his teeth. He came to the decision a long time ago that the only people allowed to question him about his life choices? Are the people he _pays_ to do that.

She’s still waiting for an answer.

He pushes the bottle towards her. “I don’t ask you about your shitty life, don’t question me for mine.”

“Maybe you could use a drink. Might loosen you up.” She pushes it back, smiling that practiced smile again. It’s kicking off Virgil’s fight or flight something crazy.

“I can’t loosen up. That’s not-“ He stops. Breathes deeply. “That’s not how I work.” God, what’s this lady’s problem?

She leans on her elbows, getting more bar gunk on her turtleneck. If she cares, she doesn’t show it. “Then how do you work? What makes a Gerard Way knock off like you tick?”

Virgil bristles at that. “At least I don’t look like Ursula’s understudy.”

The bartender rolls her eyes. “That was so creative. I’m impressed! Look, I’m swooning.” She leans over the bar in a dramatic fashion, batting her eyelashes.

Virgil takes a gulp of his beer to give himself an excuse not to look at her. God, he is _not_ emotionally stable enough for this. People flirting with him was already bad enough, but female people? _Now?_ That he has to come out to? He's not even out to his therapist - his _gay_ therapist.

Regretting every life choice he's ever made, he puts the beer down. Here goes nothing. “Men.” He won’t meet her eyes. “Men make me tick. Sorry for the disappointment.”

For a moment, she frowns and looks down at herself, inspecting her chest in a way Virgil can’t make sense of. Then she laughs, good-natured and heartfelt. “Good to know. I’m not flirting with you.”

“Then why do you care?”

“Honestly?” The bartender doesn’t smile this time. Virgil thinks he prefers the fake smiling.

“Well, I’m not a huge fan of liars, so yeah. Honesty sounds great.” It's petty, and Virgil hates himself for how bitter he sounds, but he's been outside for way too long now. Something is bound to go wrong any second.

She purses her lips. “What’s your name?”

Virgil hesitates. He’s always been a little embarrassed by his name - too nerdy. Weird. Wacky. “It’s Virgil. Virgil Sanders.”

“Well, Virgil, you’re  certainly  a charmer.” The bartender grins at him, full of promise. It would probably work on a straight guy. To him, it's just unnerving.

Virgil snorts, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. “I’m still gay.”

“I’m still not flirting.” She cocks her head towards his drink, pushing it towards him yet again in a playful gesture. “Though I am trying to get you tipsy.”

He eyes her and takes another careful sip of his drink. “I’m not gonna get drunk enough to sleep with you after one beer.”

She gives him an exasperated look, like she's done something incredibly clever and _he's_ the idiot for not picking up on it. “Have you considered the possibility that  maybe  I  just  want to talk to you?”

Virgil furrows his brow. “Then why are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Like I said. You could stand to loosen up.” She shrugs and brushes away a strand of hair, revealing more of her stage make-up. He briefly wonders if it gets her extra tips.

“So..." An awkward nod towards her. "What’s your name then?”

She grabs a bottle of whiskey from under the bar, pours a tumbler half-way full and takes a long swig. Savouring the moment, no doubt. “Deceit. Charmed.”

He blinks at her. “Is that like a hipster thing, or is that the best lie you can come up with?”

Deceit laughs a little too loud. “Yes.”

Virgil decides not to press her on it. He gets what it’s like to be embarrassed about a part of your identity. “So... why are you talking to me?”

“Honestly?”

“If you can manage it.”

She places the whiskey down on the table and gives him a slow look. “You look lost. Scared,  maybe .”

“I’m- what? I'm not scared!" Virgil stands up from the stool in a hurry, his blood boiling. “And even if I was, it’s not your job to fix me.” He knows she doesn't deserve this, but he’s been buzzing with adrenaline ever since he left the house. There’s no holding it back once the words are tumbling out.  “It’s not like you can get inside my head and twiddle some hormones and, bippity boppity boo, all the bad shit  just  _flies_ out.” He reaches into his pocket and chucks some change on the table. “I’m not your project.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, I’m trying to help you.” She grabs the book and hands it to him, her yellow nail polish looking brash against the purple book cover. “But never mind. You’re _clearly_ the only person here that feels lost and scared. How _dare_ I try and connect with you? How could I be so stupid?”

He snatches it away from her like she’s tainted something precious. “Keep the change.”

* * *

The night air is hot and humid. Perks of living in Florida.  Sometimes, Virgil wishes he wasn’t such a homing bird, that he could find peace beyond all his home comforts, travel the world and discover new horizons.

He’d never do it. Change freaks him out too much.

Sighing, he turns his phone back on to find three new voice messages shining up at him in the darkness. All from Patton.

It’s been months since Virgil’s called him, and even longer since he’s seen him in person. Sometimes Patton tries to call him, sometimes he leaves sweet little voicemails. Once, he sent a package over to Virgil’s address with a handmade card and a new hoodie. He never visits, most likely doesn’t want to crowd Virgil out of respect for his boundaries.

He puts the phone back in his pocket, ignoring the sick weight in his stomach.

Before he can turn to leave, the bartender follows him out and stands a few feet away from him, lighting a cigarette.

Virgil takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. “Hey, uh. I’m sorry I flipped out on you like that.”

Deceit looks over at him and frowns. “What?”

“I got defensive, and you — you didn’t deserve — you didn’t deserve that kind of. Crap, so.” Virgil scratches the back of his head and shrugs helplessly.

Her expression flits through several emotions, most unrecognisable. Then she laughs. It’s different to before, lighter with a weird twang. “Ah. I know what’s happening now.”

“You- what?”

“Listen, whatever you did, I’m sure it’s fine.” She takes a drag of her cigarette and groans in relief. “She- uh, I don’t hold grudges.”

“What happened to your make-up?”  Virgil squints at her and, yeah, the left side of her face is now devoid of the intricate scaley pattern she adorned inside the bar.

She points at him with her cigarette. “Dude, stop asking questions. I'm too fucking tired for it. Just  go home.”

Virgil studies her. Deceit's posture is entirely different off-duty.  Now she’s slouched against the wall, tensely folding her arms over her chest with the cigarette dangling lazily from her fingers.

It’s weird. Inside the bar, she seemed so much more dynamic and charismatic, like she was a Disney villain among the common people. Now she’s... Ordinary. A person just like him.

He kinda misses the old her.

“My name’s Val, by the way. Deceit has the scales. Figure I should dispel the confusion.” She taps the edge of the cigarette and lets the dust fly off into the night air, staring off into the distance as she does.

Virgil follows her stare and finds nothing but tar-black darkness. Getting home might be a good call. “So is it  just  Deceit when you’re on duty?” And seriously, what kind of fake name is that? Pretentious much?

She glares. "Go home, dickhead. I can't get my buzz out here with your yacking on."

“But-“ he cuts himself off- “forget it. Yeah. See you around, Val. Thanks for the talk.”

Val snorts. “I’m not the one you should thank.”

Virgil puts his hood up and starts walking home before he has to put up with any more cryptic shit from "Val". He doesn't really know how to start processing what just happened. Ironic that now might be a good time for a drink.

This _has_ to be enough for Logan to stop pouting, right? One weird night out at a hipster bar? At the very least, it’s something he can bring up at their next session.


	2. Okay, you can't pretend that THAT isn't happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have this incredible inability to take any kind of accountability, you know that?”
> 
> Virgil frowns. “I can take accountability.”
> 
> “Then prove it. Say: I’m sorry, Deceit.”
> 
> \------
> 
> Virgil Sanders is terrible at apologising, but he’s gotta start somewhere right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: there is the vaguest reference to an almost-panic-attack in this chapter. Proceed with care!

Despite his every instinct, Virgil finds himself going back to The Shady Treehouse the next morning for answers.

The crowd is different now. Older. Even the air is lighter - without the smell of bubblegum vapes and cheap cider, Virgil gets the distinct impression that he doesn't belong. There's a reason he works from home most days. A sea of adults swarm around him, buzzing with noise and laughter. Some are wearing suits with briefcases, while others have respectable dresses and lipstick smiles. Feeling a little self conscious, Virgil wraps his hoodie around himself and lifts up the hood.

What do actual adult people wear to bars? Bowties? Should he have brought a bowtie?

Behind the bar, instead of seeing Deceit, a man with a long mustache is leaning over the counter to flirt with one of the customers. It makes his stomach turn when he can't immediately spot Deceit from one quick glance around the bar.

The mustached man is staring at him now, blowing him a kiss from across the room. He stills. This was a bad call, this whole thing-

And then he sees Deceit coming out of the men’s bathroom with a mop and bucket, her nose wrinkled up in disgust. She's wearing a yellow blouse and slacks, her scales glistening in the daylight shining through the windows. He's gotta admit, the scales really suit her. And hey, she's wearing a bowtie!

“De-” He coughs. “Uh, Deceit!”

Fuck, that was too loud. Everyone’s looking at him now. Including Deceit, who smiles fondly and waves. Or… Actually, she’s making a glug motion with her hand. Does she think that's how people wave? Is that an inside joke now?

Feeling completely in over his head, Virgil gives her a hurried wave - like an _idiot._

With his brain struggling to make the connection, Virgil's feet carry him over the bar in a limp kind of hurry that he's sure isn't in any way as suave as he intends.

Deceit makes her way over to him and starts pouring two tumblers of whiskey. She hasn't removed the rubber gloves, but they go well with her suit anyway. “I hope you’re not making a habit out of coming here. I mean, day drinking would be _such_ a good look on you, but I don’t know if you could stomach it.”

“I didn’t come here to drink,” Virgil says, but he still takes the whiskey from her. “Val-”

“Deceit.” She corrects.

“Right.” Virgil snorts. “We still doing this name thing? You know it's not nearly as edgy as you think, right?”

Deceit brushes him off with a little wave. “You look dashing tonight. The sad panda look totally works for you.”

Virgil sips the whiskey. It burns the back of his throat, making his words come out croaky. “You don’t need to be mean.”

“Are you through with your little temper tantrum from last night, or were you planning on apologising?” Deceit says.

Virgil thinks back to that night, remembering the taste of the cigarette smoke in the air as Virgil stumbled his way through an awkward apology. The memory makes his nose wrinkle in shame. “I already apologised for that.”

“To Val, yes, she told me.” She leans over the table. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Can we just- Can you just quit acting like you’re two different people? You’re one person - you have the same face!” Deceit gives him a withering look, but he soldiers on. “Is she your secret twin, does she come out from the broom closet when you’re done taking your shift?” Virgil gestures wildly around the room, like Val will just pop out one of the tables to surprise him.

Deceit pinches the bridge of his nose as if _she’s_ the one having a bad day. Virgil hates her.

“Virge, darling.” Deceit gives him a patient look. “As much as I’d love to explain every little detail of my life to you, it’s all too much, too soon.”

Virgil unclenches his jaw. It’s so easy to get angry at her, and he knows that won't do him any favours now. If he wants answers, he's going to have to be nicer about it. “You have to give me something.”

“Actually, I don’t.” Deceit says. “Now, if you’re not planning on apologising, I have customers to serve.”

Before Virgil can respond, Deceit slinks over to another customer and refills their glass. Fine. Who needs her?

* * *

That night, as he tosses and turns in his bed, he comes to the bitter conclusion that he does, in fact, need Deceit quite a bit. Maybe Val is some split personality thing? Like DID? He’d feel like a dick if that’s what this all turned out to be. Oh God, what if he just insulted the poor girl for something she couldn’t control?

He buries his head into the pillow and groans. God, he needs help. Serious, professional help if he’s willing to fuss over some bartender he barely even knows.

Shit, he’s already getting professional help.

Dragging himself upright, he fumbles around on his bedside table for the emergency contact number Logan gave him. His hand brushes over some old books, a rolled-up Nightmare Before Christmas poster, a few crumpled tissues - before he thrusts the piece of paper into the air victoriously.

Does this count as an emergency? Probably not, but he’s yet to come up with any other brilliant ideas.

The number rings twice before Logan picks up.

“Hello? This is Dr. Logan Berry speaking.”

“Hey, Lo. It’s me.”

There’s a pause. “You will have to be more specific.”

“Virgil?” He fiddles with the neckline of his shirt. “Your patient?”

“Ah, yes. Virgil.” Logan doesn’t lose the stiffness in his voice. Virgil didn’t expect anything different. “It’s out of office hours. Our session isn’t for another four days, fourteen hours-”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Virgil fees his gut clench in shame. A normal person would probably wait for their session that week, but his heart is racing and he _needs_ help.

“Did you need to reschedule?” 

“No, I was… Hoping I could just talk to you?” Virgil wishes the bed covers would swallow him so he didn’t have to explain his situation. Then he remembers that that's the whole reason he's calling in the first place. “As a friend or something? I’ll pay you the extra money. I just…” He sighs. Feelings are the worst. “...need to talk to someone.”

There’s a long beat of silence, which gives Virgil a good amount of time to consider every bad decision he's ever made and how badly he's ruined his already tenuous relationship with his therapist.

Finally, Logan responds. “There’s no need to pay me. Like I said, I’m out of office hours.” There’s a rustle from the other end as Logan adjusts the phone. “And if you truly have no one else to talk to, I will gladly be of assistance. I did give you this number as a crisis option after all. I should let you know that my husband is here in the room with me though, is that going to be an issue?” 

“What? Oh, um… I don’t mind.” Virgil has never actually met Logan’s husband, but from what he’s heard about Mr. Berry (Logan is as yet to give him any other name), he sounds a little too intense for Virgil’s comfort. But whatever, he shouldn’t be on the phone for too long. “How is he?”

“Loud, obnoxious, bordering on insufferable. I love him a lot.” Logan’s tone gets a little softer. It’s almost cute. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” He wishes he’d written something down in advance. “Met someone at the poetry thing.”

“I see.”

“I think I upset her.” Virgil shifts where he’s sat. “I _know_ I upset her. I just want to make it right and I don’t really know where to start. My coping strategy for this kind of thing is usually to just… Run. Y'know?”

Logan gives a non-committal hum. “Have you told her any of this?”

Virgil snorts. “What do you think?”

“Ah. That might be a good place to start.”

Virgil’s whole body tenses. “That seems… Hard. And unnecessary! I don’t know, can’t I just get her flowers or something? Fuck, how do you solve arguments?”

“Well- I _told_ you to leave your swords on the wall when you’re eating!” Logan clears his throat. “Sorry, my husband-”

“It’s okay.” Virgil tries to stop himself from chuckling. Logan probably wouldn’t take it well. He wonders what Logan looks like with bedhead and dismisses it - domestic Logan is just too adorable to stomach.

“Excuse me for a second- What? ...Oh, is _take a stab_ another vocab card I need to make? Right. What was your suggestion? …I don’t even think that’s _legal_.”

Virgil puts the phone on speaker and takes it to the kitchen, figuring he can make himself a cup of coffee while he listens to Logan and his husband bicker.

“Where would you ever get a marching band from-? Okay. Despite what my husband thinks, arguments can’t be won with grand gestures of affection all the time. Sometimes, honest and open communication is the way forward.”

Virgil freezes mid-stir. “Is that what you’d do?”

“I think, personally, that I would try and work out the most logical move to make, and make that. I’m a cognitive behavioural therapist primarily, so I suppose that makes me a stereotype.” Virgil can hear his husband laughing in the background. His chest clenches. “If you think you’ve done something wrong, all you can really do is admit it and try to do better.”

“Right…” Virgil sighs. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Anytime, Virgil... Is that all? Was there something else?”

“No, no I’m… I’m good. Thanks, Logan.”

“Alright, you have my number. Obviously. You called it.” Logan says. Virgil hears Mr. Berry snigger. “Please don’t hesitate to ring me if something else troubles you.”

“I will.” He probably won’t, but he appreciates the gesture. He hangs up before Logan can say anything else mushy and uncomfortable. It feels like being taunted every time Logan mentions their perfect little marriage. Virgil bets they were highschool sweethearts, the bastards.

When he looks back down at his phone, the voice messages from Patton blink up at him.

...He can’t put them off forever, can he?

**_“New message. Message from: Paw-ton.”_ **

“Hey, kiddo! Not trying to bother you, just checking in. How’re liking the batch of cookies I sent over, hm? Did they _bake_ your day?”

Virgil giggles and quickly covers up his mouth. Patton is adorable.

“I hope you didn’t eat ‘em up in one go, but it’s okay if you did! Just let me know so I can make more of them, okay? I’m always happy to get cookie gifts for my _kookiest_ friend. Good thing too, because without you I’d crumble- _what?_ That’s, uh... Alright, well, you have my number if you ever wanna talk. Not that a tough cookie like you needs it! You take care now!”

_Click._

**_“Message saved._ **

**_“New message. Message from: Paw-ton.”_ **

“Virgil! It’s me again, your old padre here. Just making sure I didn’t come off too forceful about the whole _calling me_ thing. You wouldn’t even have to talk! You could just... Sit over the line and listen to me if that’s more comfortable for ya. The last thing I want is for you to feel _crummy_. Eh? No? Okay, well. I love you.”

_Click._

Virgil’s starting to feel sick, but he saves it and lets the next message play.

**_“Message saved._ **

**_“New message. Message from: Paw-ton.”_ **

“Virgil? It’s Patton. Again. Third call, desperate much? You’re probably eating all those cookies I sent you.”

Virgil gulps heavily. Patton's voice is wet and cracking in places. He sounds _broken_.

“Listen, I don’t want to seem too forceful here, but… Well, it’s been months, Virge, I miss that sweet gravelly voice! There’s absolutely no pressure, I don’t wanna stress you out. It’s just… Ah. I miss you, buddy. It’s hard being apart from you… You keep taking care, alright? Don’t let your old man tell you what’s best just because he’s getting all emotional. You know what’s best for you… I love you. So much.”

Click.

**_“Message deleted._ **

**_“End of messages.”_ **

Virgil rests the phone on his desk and lets out a shuddery breath. Jesus, did he do that? He feels bile rise in his throat, but he muscles through it and swallows tightly. 

In for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds. Out for eight. In. Out.

He should call back. Tell Patton that he’s doing okay, that he’s safe and happy and getting therapy just like he said he would when he moved away.

The phone stays in the kitchen when he goes back to bed. He doesn’t need reminders of how pathetic he is at being a good friend.

* * *

Morning shines in way too soon.

He should get up. Getting up is definitely a good idea. Especially when it’s 11 AM and he _told_ himself he’d wake up at 7 AM every morning.

Yeah, like _that_ was gonna happen.

A cup of coffee later, Virgil realises he forgot to wash off his eyeshadow from the night before, staring at the light black smudges that stain his cheeks in the reflection of the kettle. Ugh. Perfect. Logan’s “logic” can suck it - the universe is clearly out to get him and he should just go back to bed until the sun goes away.

Another two cups of coffee just makes him more anxious. Shit. Bed sounds good. Bed never betrayed him before. Bed means no scary outdoors, no people, no creepy snake faces-

Nope. He’s not thinking about Deceit. Val. What _ever._

...Alright, so he might crave the actual human connection that Deceit gives him! So what? It doesn’t matter that Deceit’s the only person he’s had an actual conversation with in… A month? Shit, he needs friends, _real_ friends. What kind of a freak can’t keep friends?

On instinct, he thinks about calling Patton for advice. His stomach twists as he banishes the thought.

* * *

Virgil goes back to see Deceit that night, a flower clutched in one hand. He figures the extra mile can’t hurt, right? Mr. Berry seemed pretty adamant about grand gestures.

With fierce determination (so he has no chance to change his mind), Virgil strides directly up to the bar and thrusts the flower into Deceit’s face before he can change his mind.

Except… Shit, that’s not Deceit.

“Well, I’m flattered honey-boo-boo! Does the butt-stuff come before or after I put this baby in a vase?” Oh no. It’s the shifty mustached guy from the night before. 

Fuck. He’s still wiggling his eyebrows at Virgil. Virgil has to say something to explain this now.

“Um-” He catches Deceit’s eye from across the bar, who’s gives him an amused grin like she knows exactly what mess Virgil got himself into and refuses to help him just for the fun of it. Asshole. “I-”

“Aw, you don’t need to be nervous, Gerard Slay! I’m sure this flower would look lovely in my toilet bowl back home. Or hey, why don’t we check out the men’s room? I’ll get the flower some water, and if _you’re_ still thirsty-”

Deceit plucks the flower from Creepy Mustache Guy and smells it. “Thank you, Virgil. I’m not really a fan of yellow flowers, but…” She grins slyly. “It's cute. Funny though, I didn’t think being thoughtful was in your nature.”

Remus gawks at Deceit, huffing indignantly. “Oh, come on. He’s clearly gay! And I look far more male than you, you boa-dacious babe.”

“I’m-” Virgil’s about to correct him, but then he realises that Discount Mario might take it as an invitation. “Yep. Straight. And that’s a flower. For a woman. That woman.”

“Yes. That woman.” Deceit says, unimpressed.

“I’m not convinced.” Charlie Chaplin’s Reject Brother leans over the bar and pinches Virgil’s cheek. “No straight man wears this much eye makeup.”

Virgil shoves his hand away. “That’s actually a harmful stereotype-” 

“Remus, don’t you have tables to serve?" Deceit cuts in. "Before you start harassing customers again? I would hate to have to report you.”

Virgil bets that’s a lie: Deceit looks about ready to pull out a HR form.

“You’re no fun, snakey-pops. But fine. Enjoy your heterosexual flirting while you can.” Remus sniggers and hops over the bar.

“We will.” Deceit snarks, but he’s already running off to terrorize some other customers.

Virgil turns back to Deceit and gives him a cautious smile. “So… You like the flower?”

“What flower?”

“Deceit.”

“I’ve never seen a flower in my life.”

“ _Deceit_.”

“What’s a flower?”

Virgil huffs a laugh, finding his breathing comes a little easier with it. Time to get this over with. “Do I… Do we have to make a big deal of this apology thing? Like, do I have to… Say it?”

Deceit places the flower on the bar and levels Virgil’s gaze. “You have this incredible inability to take any kind of accountability, you know that?”

Virgil frowns. “I can take accountability.”

“Then prove it. Say: I’m sorry, Deceit.”

Virgil glares, but she’s got a point. That would be a good start. “Fine. I’m sorry.”

“Try again.” Deceit grabs two beers and places them down in front of him, staring at him intently as she does.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m… Sorry. For hurting you. And stuff.”

“You’re hopeless.” Deceit pops off the caps and smiles sweetly. “But alright. Apology accepted. I’ll never bring it up again. I promise.”

“Good.” Virgil smiles in return, glad they can go back to this weird love/hate thing they’ve formed. “Good, I’m glad.”

“I’ll bet. You almost lost a very important asset. It’s crucial to keep your enemies closer than your friends.” Deceit sips her drink, exposing the expanse of scales that travel all the way down her throat. It’s a little unsettling.

Hang on.

“Are we not friends?”

Deceit stills with the bottle still raised. “I… Don’t know. You never asked to be.”

“Can we be?” Virgil hates himself for how the words come out. Needy. Skittish. Like he’s alone in the school dining hall and wants to eat lunch with the teachers.

“Only if you answer this one question correctly.” She puts the bottle down and holds out the flower to Virgil, the stem bending at her fingertips. “How much did this flower cost?”

Virgil feels a rush of heat rise to his face. “41 dollars?” He mumbles. “It came in a fancy bouquet but I thought that was too much so I threw the rest of the flowers behind a bush and ran away.”

Deceit is staring at him like she's never met anyone more stupid. He deserves it, honestly. “Well... We can be friends, but next time just _pick_ a flower. There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism and these industries tend to endorse harmful pesticides and child labour.”

“Right… I’ll keep that in mind.” Virgil knows he seriously messed this one up, but he can’t help beaming. He has a friend. A real one, too. Patton would be so proud.

Patton. Don't think about Patton.

“In any case, it’s a sweet gesture, especially from such an enigmatic straight man like you.” She smirks.

“Hilarious.” Virgil rolls his eyes. “You don't think he's gonna come back and hit on me, right?”

They both turn to look at Remus, who’s currently draping himself over someone who looks suspiciously like David Abbott from the movie ‘Just Like Heaven’, and- oh, that’s his tongue down David Abbott’s ear. Lovely.

“...Seems like you’re in the clear.” Deceit deadpans.

Virgil does a full-body shudder and looks back at his drink. “Am I distracting you? Do you have work you need to get on with?”

“Trying to get rid of me too?” Deceit chuckles. “I suppose I should, though. These bills won’t pay themselves, and I promised Val I’d behave myself.”

Virgil points at him accusingly. “Okay, I know I apologised and all, but you’re explaining that to me someday.”

“Someday, yes, when I want to scare the shit out of you, I’ll be sure to bring it up.” She pats Virgil’s arm affectionately. It gives Virgil a warm glow that he tries to fight off.

“Right. So never?”

"Never."

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr: @writetimewrongplace
> 
> Don't be shy, leave a comment if you enjoyed it! (They always make my day <3 )


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